


Love and Knowledge of You

by MostGeckcellent



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Fluff, Meet-Cute, Misunderstandings, Open Relationships, Other, Polyamory, shakespeare as a pickup line
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-10
Updated: 2020-12-10
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:20:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27999630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MostGeckcellent/pseuds/MostGeckcellent
Summary: Based on this Tumblr post: https://augustales.tumblr.com/post/637080483940941824Feuilly is overworked, and that's the excuse he's going to give if anyone asks how this happened. He can't bring himself to regret it, though.
Relationships: Bahorel/Feuilly (Les Misérables), Bahorel/Feuilly/Jean Prouvaire, Bahorel/Jean Prouvaire, Feuilly/Jean Prouvaire
Comments: 6
Kudos: 17





	Love and Knowledge of You

It starts on a Thursday night - or a Friday morning, really, as it’s swiftly approaching three in the morning. Feuilly is finishing a shift at the bar when he runs directly into something solid. 

“Fuck,” he mutters as he drops his leftovers on the ground. 

“Aw, shit, I’m sorry, dude,” the something - or someone - he’d bumped into says. Feuilly looks up, and sure enough, it wasn’t a wall he’d walked into but a person, tall and broad and looking genuinely apologetic. 

“No worries, I should have been looking where I was going,” Feuilly waves him off, doing his best not to be flustered. 

“Let me replace your - well, I won’t pretend to know what meal that is, but let me replace it,” Tall Broad and Handsome insists, picking up the carton from the ground. 

“Supper?” Feuilly hazards a guess, and runs a hand through his hair, frazzled. He was hoping to get a meal and a few hours of sleep in before his morning shift at the bookstore, but that seems off the table now. “I mean, mealtimes are made up anyway, right?” 

“Hey, no judgement here,” the man agrees. “There’s a hole in the wall kinda place a block away, they’re open 24 hours?” he suggests, and Feuilly hesitates. 

He shouldn’t, is the thing. He has work in five hours, and he should try to get some sleep. But he does need the meal. 

“I’m Bahorel, by the way,” the man (Bahorel) continues, as if he hasn’t noticed Feuilly’s hesitation. 

“Feuilly,” he introduces himself. He looks at Bahorel again. It’s been a while since he’s let anyone buy him dinner; he hasn’t got the time, between his two jobs and his apprenticeship and volunteering, but, well. “Sure, lead the way,” he ends up saying. 

The hole in the wall ends up being a Salvadoran place with the best fish tacos Feuilly thinks he’s ever had. Bahorel convinces him to get a drink they call a ‘margojito’, too, which ends up being surprisingly good. 

The company is good, too, honestly. Bahorel is funny, and has stories that Feuilly wouldn’t believe if it weren’t for - well, he doesn’t even know what it is, but Bahorel doesn’t seem like the sort to embellish. 

“There’s no way that happened,” he says anyway and Bahorel finishes up a story about being arrested at an underground fighting ring, which he was only at because someone (a friend named Bossuet?) had given him the wrong address for a mutual friend’s house party. 

“Look, if you knew Lesgles, you’d know sometimes his bad luck is contagious,” Bahorel shrugs. “It’s just a hazard of knowing the guy.” 

Feuilly thinks this might be the third different nickname he’s heard for the same friend - either that, or this story is confusing even Bahorel, now. He laughs, though, because it is funny, he has to admit. 

He hasn’t looked at the time in a while. At this point, he doesn’t want to, but it has to be getting late. 

“Where are you headed?” Bahorel asks. 

“I’ll take the three home,” Feuilly says, uncommitted to the idea. “Should probably get  _ some _ sleep before morning…” he frowns into his drink. 

“I’m headed the same way, let me walk you home,” Bahorel offers, and Feuilly should decline. He should. 

  
  


He doesn’t. 

  
  


Feuilly glances at his alarm clock from where he’s sprawled in bed. Bahorel has an arm thrown over Feuilly’s chest, and is pressing kisses down his neck. They’re both sweaty and flushed, blankets shoved off the end of the bed. Feuilly should clean himself up, offer the same to Bahorel, but that would mean getting up, and he wants to savour the way Bahorel is holding him for a moment longer. 

_ “Hereafter, in a better world than this, I shall desire more love and knowledge of you,” _ Bahorel murmurs, lips pressed to Feuilly’s collar, now. Bahorel kisses the mark there, dark and getting darker still, and Feuilly flips over to face him. 

“Shakespeare?” he asks, pretty sure he’s right. As You Like It, he thinks. 

“Mmm,” Bahorel agrees. Feuilly kisses him again, and Bahorel uses the arm still looped around Feuilly to pull him in closer.

When Feuilly’s alarm goes off at 7am, he hasn’t slept a wink. 

  
  


* * *

  
  


Feuilly hasn’t had a spare moment to think, let alone to call Bahorel as he promised, in the past three days. Jeanine had quit at the bookstore, and Feuilly had been pulling extra hours to make up for it. And of course, his apprenticeship at the printing press was asking for more and more of his time, despite not actually paying him any better. So it was Tuesday, now, and Feuilly was supposed to have had the evening off, for once, but one of the high school kids at the bookstore hadn’t shown up for his shift, which meant Feuilly was working late, again. 

At least this time, the work wouldn’t be too much. They were staying open late to host a poetry reading event, or something, and Feuilly was there to keep an eye on things, to set up and tear down after, and in the middle, he’d get to actually listen to the event. He’d like to be at home, taking a long bath and maybe reading a book, but this was alright, too. Chances were, if he went home, he’d just spend it cleaning and meal prepping and working anyway. He knows he’s not good at actually relaxing. 

The event itself is sparsely populated. Not bad for an amateur poetry reading, of course, there are maybe a dozen people gathering in chairs around the impromptu stage. Feuilly slowly scans the books to be put on the shelves as he listens. The first girl to go is alright. Her poetry isn’t bad, but it’s obvious she’s nervous. Someone else takes the mic, and Feuilly mentally labels him as a hipster, with his glasses and his flannel, before he realizes that he, himself, is wearing a red flannel shirt and black-rimmed glasses. Eventually, the final poet goes to the mic. 

The first thing Feuilly notices is the flowers woven into their braid, white daisies. They’re wearing a yellow sweater which hangs off of one shoulder, and bright floral leggings, and combat boots. They’re tiny, they can’t be more than 4’8”, and Feuilly thinks they’re perfect. And then they start to speak. 

It’s morbid, this person’s first poem. It’s almost strange, that these words can come from such a brightly coloured person. He wishes he’d caught a name, but he’d been distracted during their introduction. 

Feuilly realizes he’s been staring when their eyes meet from across the room. He’s frozen in place for a moment, and then the reader winks, concludes their first poem, and switches seamlessly to a love poem, of sorts. Feuilly thinks he catches some clever innuendo in it, and smiles, but they don’t lock eyes like that again - he’s careful not to stare like that anymore. 

The reading ends, and the group intermingles to discuss rhyming couplets and metaphors and - well, and whatever else it is poets discuss. The poet with the flowers in their hair approaches Feuilly, though, dodging congratulatory well-wishers and admirers. “What did you think?” they ask, upfront. 

“You were very good,” Feuilly says, a bit awkwardly. “I uh, I liked the wordplay in the second one?” 

He might have gone to school, if he’d had the money and the time, and then he might have something better to say about it, but that seems to be enough to make the poet smile. 

“Thank you!” they beam at him. “I thought particularly in the third stanza, that maybe the references might be a bit obtuse, but -” 

“No, it was great,” Feuilly assures him. 

“Jean Prouvaire, call me Jehan.” They stick a hand out abruptly, and Feuilly takes it. He intends only to shake, but Jehan actually takes his hand and kisses it, and Feuilly turns bright pink. 

“Uh. Feuilly,” he says, eyes wide. “That’s - me. I’m Feuilly. It’s nice to meet you.” 

“It really, really is,” Jehan agrees, a coy smile on their lips. Feuilly smiles back. 

They’re talking long after everyone else has gone home for the night, discussing everything under the sun. From Judith Butler to Foucault, for once Feuilly feels like he is being included in the conversation, without ever being asked after his credentials, without being made to feel lesser for his lack of education. Jehan has a wealth of knowledge, on philosophy and literature and everything in between, and Feuilly feels he is being swept along for the ride, without ever losing his footing and being dragged under. In short, he’s captivated. 

Feuilly goes into the stacks of books to look for a source, and Jehan grips his wrist. When Jehan kisses him, he feels his back hit the bookshelf. He hears something fall. He ignores it. 

They take a cab to Jehan’s place. Feuilly doesn’t think about how many hours of work cab fare will cost him; he’s preoccupied with the things Jehan is whispering in his ear about what they’ll do when they have Feuilly alone. 

They fall into bed. Afterwards, Jehan is kissing the hand-shaped bruises on Feuilly’s hips, and Feuilly is playing slowly with Jehan’s hair. When Jehan speaks, Feuilly almost doesn’t register the words.  _ “Hereafter, in a better world than this, I shall desire more love and knowledge of you.” _

Feuilly smiles, first. And then he frowns a little. “Huh. That’s - Shakespeare, right?”

“As You Like It,” Jehan confirms, moving in bed to cuddle up with Feuilly. 

“You know, someone said the exact same thing to me not that long ago,” Feuilly muses. “What a weird coincidence.” 

Jehan laughs, suddenly, and Feuilly had thought it was a weird coincidence, sure, but not  _ that _ funny. But Jehan is practically about to fall off the bed, they’re laughing so hard. 

“Oh. Oh, no, that’s not weird at all. That’s my boyfriend,” they explain. “I can’t believe he stole my line!” 

“Your - fuck.” Feuilly pales, and all but bolts off of the bed. “What the fuck?” He doesn’t know what game these two are playing, but he doesn’t appreciate being pulled into the middle of it. He grabs a shirt, trying to get dressed. 

“Oh - oh, honey, no, I promise, whatever you’re thinking, it’s not like that,” Jehan kneels on the bed and holds out their hands to reassure him, and Feuilly feels vaguely ill. “We’re good, Baz and I, we have an open relationship. We’ve never both accidentally, unknowingly fallen into bed with the same person but - oh! Oh, you must be the guy he’s been talking about!” Jehan claps their hands, looking thrilled all of a sudden. “He’s  _ pining. _ Waiting for you to call.” They look delighted. 

Feuilly pauses. It makes more sense, somehow, than the idea that they’re both cheating, or something, or playing a weird power game. 

“Come back to bed,” Jehan beckons Feuilly. “I promise we’re not just messing with you. Baz really likes you, and so do I.” 

He hesitates a moment longer, but Jehan is pouting, and still naked in the bed, and Feuilly is weak. He goes. 

“Stay the night,” Jehan invites, tracing shapes with his fingers on Feuilly’s back. He suspects they’re writing poetry, actually. Feuilly wants to say yes. 

So he does. 

  
  


When Feuilly wakes up, it’s in an unfamiliar bed, to the smell of coffee and pancakes. “Mph?” he mumbles, and he feels someone move in the bed beside him. Jehan. 

“Day’s sweetest moments are at dawn,” Jehan murmurs in Feuilly’s ear. 

Feuilly rolls around so they’re facing each other, and kisses them good morning, morning breath be damned. 

“Refreshed by his long sleep, the light kisses the languid lips of night,” Jehan finishes when the kiss ends, lingering close. “Bahorel made pancakes,” they add. 

Feuilly grows tense, briefly, at the reminder. He’s still not sure what to expect from all of this; will Bahorel be upset?

“He’ll be delighted to see you,” Jehan assures him, as if reading his mind, and Feuilly nods, not entirely convinced. 

They get up, and Bahorel is there, sure enough. He’s whistling something from the top 40 charts as he flips the pancakes on the stovetop, and he’s wearing an apron that reads, in some calligraphic font, “They see me rollin,” followed by a picture of a rolling pin, and then “They hatin’.” Feuilly snorts, and Bahorel looks up and notices both of them there. Feuilly waves, blushing a bit awkwardly. “Hey..?”

Bahorel grins wide. “It’s you!” He points the spatula at Feuilly. “Fuck yeah. You want blueberries in yours?”

“Uh.. yeah? Sure? Thanks.” Feuilly, for once, doesn’t have to run off to work until 2, so he has time. 

The pancakes are orgasmically good. Feuilly makes an obscene noise when he takes his first bite, and turns almost as red as his hair. Bahorel winks at him, and Jehan looks like the cat who got the cream about it. 

Feuilly offers to help with the dishes, and somehow the three of them end up sprawled together on the couch, watching something with a bunch of explosions on Netflix. Jehan has commandeered Feuilly’s arm, and their writing has taken up most of the free skin there by the time the movie ends. Feuilly commandeers the kitchen to make, in Bahorel’s words, “the best fucking grilled cheese sandwiches known to humankind.” 

This time, Feuilly leaves with Jehan’s phone number, too, and he even follows up on his promise to call them. 

  
  


* * *

  
  
  


The sun is starting to peek in from between the curtains. Feuilly is leaning back against the headboard of their new king-sized bed, in their new apartment, and Jehan is laying across his lap. Bahorel has flopped down on the bed across Feuilly’s legs, and Feuilly thinks, despite how tired he is, that he couldn’t be happier. 

“How can I say ‘I love you,’ he murmurs softly, playing with Jehan’s hair gently, “if I know the love is you.. The word ‘love’ either as a verb or a noun would be destroyed in front of you.” 

“Derrida,” Jehan recognizes, and they smile softly, reaching for Feuilly’s hand and Bahorel’s at the same time. “Now you’re both stealing my moves. No fair.” It’s obvious, Feuilly thinks, that they don’t really mind. 

The sun rises. Bahorel makes pancakes. Feuilly smiles. 

  
  



End file.
